


Mourning

by aces



Category: Stargate: SG-1
Genre: Ancients, Antarctica, Episode Related, Tok'ra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does Jack remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea rattling around in my head after watching "Frozen," and then I combined that with an idea I had for "Abyss," based mainly on the feel and style of the ep…and this is what I came up with. 

"What do you remember?"

He remembered cold. He remembered remembering the bone-deep cold that insinuated itself into you, the subversive cold that at first numbed you and then shot you through with constant aching pain, betraying you by turning your own body's weaknesses against you. He remembered shivering as he confronted that cold again, even though it hadn't really had time to hit him yet. He'd never thought he'd have to come back to Antarctica.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered the encroaching illness. He remembered a loss of energy, a weakening of resolve. He remembered feeling sluggish, lying on a couch and indifferent to the cold world around him that was inexorably becoming far too hot. A nice irony, that, to die of a fever in the middle of the coldest continent on the planet. But he didn't appreciate irony that much. Give him blatant sarcasm any day. Irony was for people with multiple PhDs. He remembered giving up.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered giving up. He remembered how easy it had been to lose that energy, how easy it had been to let that resolve weaken. So easy to slip away. So easy to let go of the sarcasm, let go of his dry, caustic wit. He'd been looking for a way out for a while. He'd been asking for a way to let go.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered wanting to let go. Asking himself for permission. He didn't want to stay anymore.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered an hallucination, a dream, hope made flesh. Or at least, the semblance of flesh, shoes-going-through-bodies to the contrary. He remembered an unspoken, unthought wish, buried too deep to know of it until he felt the relief of its coming true, an ache of something constricted in the vicinity of his heart being gently released. He remembered speaking to a lost friend.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered frustration, grief, despair. He remembered preparing to give up again, preparing to let go. He remembered running out of options, the way a runner runs out of breath, running down until there was only one choice left. One choice. He remembered asking permission again to let go. And not receiving it.

"What do you remember?"

He remembered coming home. He remembered a series of good-byes.

"What do you remember, sir?" she asked, looking down at him half-hesitantly, half-curiously. Scientific interest piqued, but the subordinate's wish not to pry--the friend's wish not to pry too soon. "How...much?"

He looked up at her for a long time, and she shifted uneasily under his expressionless scrutiny. "Not much, Major," he said at last, a small frown creasing between his eyebrows. "Not much at all."

She frowned herself, in concern. "O...kay, sir," she said. She rested a hand near his on the infirmary bed for a moment, not quite touching him. "I'll get you some more water." She smiled and was gone, leaving behind her for a moment an extra warmth in the air that was gone too soon.

The frown stayed on his face. He remembered.

"Not much at all," he repeated in a whisper.


End file.
